


Interlude

by Whreflections



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Hannibal, Jealous Will, Jealousy, Light breathplay, M/M, Murder Husbands, Planned Flirting, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: As Hannibal and Will settle in to their new lives in Australia, they're settling into their relationship, too- branching out, trying new things.  As much as Hannibal enjoys having Will's attention, it stands to reason a deliberate bid for attention is well worth trying, to see how they both enjoy it.Written for Bottom Hannibal Day 2017





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> SO this is one of the fics of more substance I wanted to have done for Bottom Hannibal Day, XD 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy, <3

It would have been easier if Will hadn’t, before, envisioned Hannibal with just this man. 

Well.  Not _precisely_ this man, of course; Will’s never seen him before and hopes he never will again, but he knows his kind.  He’s older than Hannibal, maybe in his 60’s, but that certainly doesn’t stop him from looking every part the prize—handsome face, expensive tastes.  He swirls his wine before he drinks it like Hannibal does, breathes in just above the edge of the glass.  It’s clearly not his first year coming to Opera Queensland’s annual gala, and this is both a place and a skin that suits him.  He looks as if he were born in pressed linen and gold cufflinks.  Not the first time, not the universally identical physical birth, but the second that all men have that’s more important, the point between 0 and 99 where you peel the husk from your soul and come into your own. 

He is Hannibal’s sort in a way that Will never will be—though of course, the same can also be said in reverse, with more force.  These two would have fit together in the way drapes and paint can fit together, beautiful and well matched, aesthetically pleasing, a choice well made.  Will matches to Hannibal in the way of raw, wild things, bound to him with instinctive savagery and visceral tenderness. 

They could have fit, and been happy, but Will’s soul is patched to Hannibal’s now, their very minds conjoined by a palace that was created before Will’s birth and will likely continue beyond Hannibal’s death.  Will doesn’t like to think of it, but he knows the weight of it is one he’ll likely be left with, unless he’s rewarded the blessing he tried to claim on the cliffside.  It wasn’t time, then, and he’s glad for it, but there’s a sheltered part of him that hopes when it _is_ time, he’ll have the chance again.  He would prefer to end it that way, their shared walls drawn in tight around the both of them, sealed with their deaths so firmly no intruder could ever dream of breeching its gates. 

With all of that in mind, the full force of all that he is to Hannibal, and all that Hannibal is to him, he knows full well this flashy interloper holds no threat.  He can eye Hannibal (as he is now) as much as he wants, drag his eyes across the cut of his shirt and his slacks and give him all the looks he likes that make it clear that in his eyes, Hannibal is still young enough to seem a pert little prize.  Hannibal, too, can flirt (as _he_ is, also) and talk, eyes animated, drinks well chosen for the moment and the conversation.  This is something Will can’t enjoy with Hannibal on Hannibal’s level and he knows it; he’d no more deprive Hannibal of the chance to revel with his peers on the subject of opera than he would expect Hannibal not to take a certain amount of joy from coating on charm.  He used it so effectively for so many years in Baltimore. 

Bedelia wasn’t wrong to call his façade in those days a suit, but it’s a suit Hannibal wears well, and one worn in until even beneath his immaculate care it shows the fond creases of age.  Hannibal was, before Will, unfailingly impractical as a criminal.  Even when it would serve him to do so, he does very little he doesn’t enjoy.  His life is a buffet of indulgence; it only stands to reason that his persona provides personal indulgence.  He wouldn’t often admit to it, but Will can see just how much he enjoys playing a good-natured man of means and culture, charming, full of witty quips and thoughtful asides. 

He won’t deny Hannibal those things, but he’s not indifferent to the current situation, either, and Hannibal’s certain to know it.  Among the many trains he’s running, Will knows that one of them was set in motion to court his jealousy.  Had they not planned for this (as much as you can ever plan for something inherently spontaneous), he’d still have seen the telltale tracks in Hannibal himself.  He’s checked the room for Will far less than he usually would were they to be separated, and he’s standing a little too close, his smiles a little too warm.  His wine glass is in his right hand rather than in his dominant left, which would have been a tell even if Will hadn’t seen him time and again go out of his way in the last few months to show off his ring.  To hide it now indicates he’s courting something, and his end game certainly isn’t this stranger. 

This is a bearable game, with a foreseeable conclusion they’ve set out to test.  Knowing that, Will waits, and watches, and nurses his whiskey.  He determines his point of intervention chiefly on the heat of building tension in his stomach, but the clock is a consideration, too.  If this experiment results in the two of them missing Act III of _Faust_ , Hannibal will be less likely to want to repeat it—possibly, at least.  They haven’t tried this before; for all Will knows, missing opera for illicit sex might turn Hannibal on.  He does much for Will, these days, that Will wouldn’t have been sure of four years ago. 

There is thrill even in entering the conversation, in the feel of Hannibal leaning back into his hand when he touches the small of his back, the moment of half-hidden disappointment in the stranger’s eyes as he realizes his prize has already been claimed. 

“I go to get a drink and you melted right into the crowd,”  Will says, half-true, a little wry but too full of warm amusement to sting.  Still, this man will likely find it as out of place as he’s likely to find Will, everything from his slightly deepened Louisiana drawl to his drink atypical in this place. 

Hannibal’s smile is all for Will, full and rich, his eyes crinkled and warm at the corners.  “Terribly rude of me, but I’m afraid the temptation to discuss the first acts was too great.  Lachlan, “  Hannibal glances to the stranger, barely a glance before his eyes are back on Will, his arm slipping around him.  “This is my husband, Phillip Atwood.  Lachlan Brown has been a member here at OperaQ for ten years.  We were just discussing prior renditions of _Faust_ we’ve seen.” 

The alias rolled easier from Hannibal’s tongue in public, but Will had heard it the first time he said it, handing over his new passport.  He had said it then like the grinding burr of a chainsaw stuck in wood, irritated and stilted.  It would never be easy for Hannibal to call him any name but his own, and Will could sympathize.  If they lived long enough to have a dozen names, he would, every time, have to school himself before he called Hannibal anything but. 

Will held out his hand, and shook with a grip just shy of too hard.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.  I’m happy to accompany Stefan to these events but I can’t discuss them with the level of detail I know he’d prefer.  I was hoping he might make some friends here.” 

“Oh, undoubtedly.  Your husband is very charming man, very knowledgeable, too.  Quite the catch you’ve made.”  There’s a twist to his smile that reads with camaraderie, on the surface, but Will can feel the movements beneath it, like the deep click and scuttle of creatures beneath the earth.  Jealousy, surprise, disappointment. 

He doesn’t feel like being polite.  He doesn’t even feel like being particularly subtle. 

“Quite,” he confirms, and feels the bite of it against his teeth.  Will downs the last of his whiskey, and steps back from Hannibal just enough to take his hand.  “If you’ll excuse us, Lachlan; I need to borrow my husband for a moment.  I’m sure you’ll have much to discuss at the final intermission.” 

For a moment, Will lets himself imagine how Hannibal might have gone stiff, what his face might have betrayed if someone else had tried this with him, someone he dated back in Baltimore, Bedelia in Italy.  There would have been tells, signs that even when subtle couldn’t have been missed by the person leading him away, and yet he follows Will as smooth and placid as following the current. 

They weave away from the crowd, toward empty hallways, and it’s only when they’re heading down stairs that head to the basement floor that Hannibal speaks, low and hidden by the scuff of their shoes. 

“Such a lack of propriety.  They’ll think us terribly rude, or terribly in love.” 

The answer is both, _both_ , and Will gives it to Hannibal in his eyes as he looks back of his shoulder.  The depth of understanding and adoration on Hannibal’s face is enough to make him stop, and for half a heartbeat Will considers taking him right here, his hands wrapped tight around a gilded banister. 

He swallows, and lets the impulse pass.  His hand slides up and out of Hannibal’s to wrap around his wrist, squeezing possessively over his pulse, his thumb tracing up high enough to press against the subtle rise of his scar.  Hannibal’s intake of breath is sharp, and beautiful.  He nods toward to foot of the staircase, his eyes dark with the heat of long-banked fires. 

“Go,” Hannibal murmurs, heavy and thick, full of history.  “I’m following you.” 

\-----

Like the bathroom upstairs Will had seen when they arrived, the one he’s found in the basement is opulent, though less gilded.  Red marble splashes in dramatic beauty against a backdrop of soft grey stone to form the sinks, but beyond a cursory notice Will pays them little mind.  His eyes are on the doors, counting openings, checking them twice.  On the second pass, his fingers flex around Hannibal’s wrist. 

All empty.  All safe. 

At least, as safe as they’re going to be.  He tugs Hannibal with him into the final stall, slams the door into place, and the dam breaks while his hand is still on the latch.  They kiss as if they’re equally ravenous, as if they hadn’t had the opportunity to drink of each other’s mouths just hours before.  They were naked then, stretched out by the pool under the heat of the Australian summer, reveling in the novelty of December sunlight.  Hannibal’s skin had tasted of salt and chlorine. 

Now, he carries the scent of cologne and the taste of wine, and Will relishes it no less.  He could kiss Hannibal for hours (and has), but they don’t have hours, now.  The opera will start without them, and they’ll be stuck in the lobby until intermission.  He doesn’t want to risk how Hannibal might feel about that if he can help it, not this first time. 

God, he hopes it’s just the first time, because already Will knows he can acquire a taste for this—the heat of Hannibal’s thigh pressing up against his hardening cock, the pant of their breaths echoing in the quiet, both touching in their intimacy and deliciously obscene. 

But they’re going to run out of time if he doesn’t stop them, so he does, turning Hannibal so abruptly he can’t second guess it.  One hand fists in the back of Hannibal’s jacket; the other reaches around to unbuckle Hannibal’s slacks. 

Compliant, Hannibal shifts in the space he has until his palms are pressed to the wall, his fingers flexing against the stone when he breathes deep at the sound of his belt clacking against the floor, taking his pants and boxers down with it.  He’s bare now, already hard, and from his stance and the taunt readiness in his shoulders it’s clear he’d welcome it even if Will took him just like this. 

He won’t; he would _never_ , but there’s something hot and fierce and wrong that scrabbles deep inside him and tells him he _could_.  He could press in and make Hannibal yield to him, make him squirm, and Hannibal would take it like a penitent to a God of passion and blood. 

Will nudges Hannibal’s mouth with his fingers, insistent.  “Suck.  Get them as wet as you can.”  He’s got lube in his pocket; he doesn’t need this, but he wants it.  It’s more for show, for the _feel_ , for the sake of something to fill Hannibal’s mouth and the razor sharp tug in Will’s dick at the reminder of what that mouth can do. 

Hannibal takes to his task with abandon, sucking hot and quick, efficient and wet.  Saliva slips down Will’s knuckles, and Will pops the cap on the lube with a low groan.  As he presses the first finger in, his teeth find the lobe of Hannibal’s ear, tugging rough enough to be sure he’s paying attention. 

“What would you have done, if I hadn’t been here?  If you’d come to Queensland alone?”  He whispers, but it still sounds loud in this cavernous quiet, as loud as the wet sound of his finger massaging Hannibal’s rim, fucking in and out.  “Would you have gone home with him?  Let him do this to you?” 

Hannibal’s mouth pops free of his fingers, pants as he shakes his head.  His breath hitches at the stretch of pulling free from Will’s teeth, though he licks his lips at the soft little click of those teeth slipping free and meeting, blinks long like he’s savoring. 

“No.  No one does this to me but you.” 

It’s such a Hannibal answer, both honest and dishonest depending on the angle Will holds it up to the light.  He would have, undoubtedly, let the man fuck him, but he wouldn’t have let himself be seen.  To Hannibal, that defines this, makes all the difference, changes it into something that he can definitively say Will alone in all his life has been permitted. 

There is a part of Will that rankles at the dishonesty, still, that goes back to half-truths and wavering loyalties and papers burning in Hannibal’s office, but that roughened edge is easier to quiet, now.  The part that’s true has come to matter to him, too, as it matters to Hannibal.  Sometimes, Will feels that even their vision is blurring, shifting, changing into a compound eye of a kind the world hasn’t seen since the heroes of old.  Even in that, he feels Hannibal’s influence.  He never saw them like that, before, never believed they were anything so grand, but what they are is unique; he knows that now.  He felt it when they made their sacrifice, an offering to buy them both a new life. 

Will changes hands, uses fingers slick with lube to grip Hannibal’s throat and tilt his chin back, far enough that Will can bite down against the side of his neck as his spit-slick fingers slide inside.  He won’t suck a mark there; not here.  There are limits to how far he’ll take this experiment—he wants them to know what the two of them have done here, yes, but only to the point of manageable tittering.  A slight whisper, not a full blown scandal. 

Beneath his hand and his teeth, he feels Hannibal swallow, his cock twitching in his boxers at the intoxicating force of such intimacy.  He has held his hand just there and felt Hannibal’s breath go shallow, seen him come at the moment he realizes Will won’t hold him fiercely enough to cut it off entirely; not now.  There might have been a time he’d have risked it, more willing to float closer to disaster, less sure which side he was on.  Now, he’s seen Hannibal’s chest quiet in the aftermath of the sea, and he never wants to see it again.  All he craves is to feel the _power_ of the trust Hannibal gives him, to feel the life of this creature he’s tamed beat against his palms and his teeth like the lick of wave on rock. 

Hannibal bears down against his fingers, a soft, wounded noise all that he allows.  He’s far more vocal, at home; Will marks that in his mind as something he misses, though he knows already they’ll do this again.  There’s too much glorious heat in it not to, too much boiling inside him at the thought that Hannibal not only allows him this but welcomes it, is widening his stance and fucking back onto his fingers like he can’t get enough, drunk on mutual desire. 

Will laps over the faint indentations from his teeth, squeezes ever so slightly with his hand, just enough to feel his thumb dig in.  “You didn’t want him to see your ring, Hannibal.” God it feels _good_ , damn near orgasmic to say his name.  It’s hard to veil his tongue in public, harder really than he’d realized.  This is the first time beyond the confines of their home he’s dared to set it free since they moved here.  There is danger in how good it feels, how it might tempt him.  “Did you want him to offer to take you home?  How jealous did you want me to be?”

Hannibal’s hips jerk, a sharp movement forward that tells Will his cock is leaking.   Beneath the slow curl of Will’s fingers, Hannibal’s throat vibrates with every word, beautifully thick with need.  “Jealous enough to need to leave your mark.  To educate.” 

The sudden mirrored curl of Will’s fingers inside him brings Hannibal down a little in height, knees bending to help him bear the direct assault on his prostate, pleasure so thick his eyelids flutter after they close.  Will watches them, and rubs harder.  “Who am I educating?  _Lachlan_?”

Hannibal’s head shakes only once, a subtle turn.  “He’s irrelevant, though you’ll enjoy watching him realize the depth of his failure.  It’s—“  He swallows, does it again and deeper when Will’s hand loosens, stroking the column of his throat, already rewarding him for the right answer he hasn’t even finished giving.  “—for us.  A renewal of vows.  The reminder that I belong to you, and you to me, irrevocably.” 

Will’s fingers slip free, and he lets go of Hannibal’s throat in the same motion, moves instead to wrap his arms around his waist.  He nuzzles at the collar of his shirt, pauses to taste his skin and remember the way they said their vows, on the deck of a boat, before God and the devil and the depths of the sea. 

“Till death do us part,” he says, low and rough, laced beneath with tenderness that comes from a love so great it nearly killed them both.  He knows what he says, and means it, more than he ever imagined he could any phrase to any soul. 

“Death wouldn’t dare.”  There’s humor there, but daring, too.  If it came to it, if Death himself came to greet them, he can imagine Hannibal’s defiance, teeth bared.  His chosen mate was hard won.  He won’t give him up for something so…transient as life. 

Desperate to get inside him, Will pats the pockets of his coat, searches two before he remembers where to look.  The foil of the condom crinkles under his fingers, chased by the faintest sound of displeasure, interrupted by Hannibal’s hand shooting back to reach for him. 

He misses, but Will moves to let himself be intercepted, long fingers gripping tight around his wrist. 

“Will, please.  Don’t.”  On the air, Will tastes need honed needle sharp, threaded with devotion.

It might should taste like too much, but it feels just right.  The tip of Will’s nose bumps the line of Hannibal’s spine, his mouth curved into a smile when it finds the nape of his neck and presses down, reply muffled against his skin.  “I was thinking of you.  There’s plenty of opera left, and you’ll want to go to dinner.  I know you prefer it without, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”  Messy, and wet, boxers sticking to his skin.  Will knows the feeling, now.  It’s nice, for a few minutes, not a few hours. 

Hannibal’s eyes when he cranes his neck to meet Will’s over his shoulder don’t show a touch of concern for the impending state of his boxers, or the sitting, or the wait.  There’s only need, pits of want laced with the pain of wondering if he’s about to be denied—it’s there in the expectant part of his mouth, the lines near his eyes. 

Will lets the condom drop, and kisses him.  The angle is awkward, but Hannibal’s mouth gives easily under his, and Will takes with abandon.   Hannibal _is_ his to take, to tease and fuck and adore and bring back upstairs with a swollen mouth and Will’s come seeping into the silk of his boxers. 

His mind is torn between the deliciousness of the future, sitting next to Hannibal disheveled from their love making, and the reality of it in the moment, the glove-tightness of Hannibal’s body as Will begins to press inside.  It’s a glorious mixture to have swimming through his mind, but the more he moves the more his thoughts naturally coalesce, until there’s no constructs of the future.  He’s barely aware of the opera bathroom, half in it and hearing the little illicit echoes of the slapping sound of his thrusts, the harshness of their breath, half out of it and with Hannibal in a church filled with starlight. 

A choir sings, there, and Hannibal has his hands pressed to a pillar of stone, bracing himself against his history, consumed by his present, and his future.  He is more vocal, there, his cries near musical, seemingly eager to broadcast his pleasure—perhaps because he lacks shame, though Will suspects it’s more to do with the source, and his inherent pride.  His pleasure in these moments comes from _Will_ , from what they’re doing together, and what better prize could there be for Hannibal to immortalize than that? 

Will’s pace is near punishing, hard and fast, but his love is in his hands.  They form to Hannibal’s hips as if sculpted to  hold them, run up beneath his shirt to rake through the hair Will has come to love resting his cheek on in the night.  His mouth roves everywhere he can reach, trailing open mouthed kisses, dripping words between. 

_God, that’s good, Hannibal._

_Fuck, you’re so tight._

_When he goes home and thinks about you like this; I want him to do it knowing you’re mine._

_I love you.  I love you, Hannibal._

He loses track, follows instinct and says everything he feels, and nothing he doesn’t mean, until he’s too sweaty to pass off as nothing and Hannibal’s quietest sounds are rising a little loud for the bathroom. 

Will snaps his hips in hard, tucks Hannibal as close to his body as he can, so snug their hips are flush.  His palm covers Hannibal’s mouth, and instantly he feels the eager dart of his tongue, the blunted press of his teeth. 

“Can you come like this?”  Will breathes, hot against the shell of Hannibal’s ear, already panting to gather air to keep going.  “Because I’m about to.  Do you need me to touch you?” 

As if he’d waited only to be asked, Hannibal makes a sound too muffled to read, and lets go.  His cock jerks wildly, spurting untouched against the stone wall, and the image combined with the pulsing squeeze around him is just too much for Will.  He comes hard, as forceful and sudden as a punch to the base of his spine, his hips snapping forward rapid-fire to match the tempo of his own desperation. 

Spent, Will drapes against his shoulder for a moment like a hunting dog that’s caught his quarry, possessive in  his sprawl, his mouth absently busy as he kisses and nips the line of Hannibal’s jaw.  He must be heavy, but Hannibal’s arms don’t tremble.  They remain pressed to the wall, braced for impact, though the most forceful movement he gets is a nuzzle of increased pressure against his cheek, Will seeking a kiss which Hannibal easily grants. 

The lights flicker, fading in and out, and Will’s fingers tighten in the back of Hannibal’s suit coat, giving himself leverage to push away and out.  His cock pops free, and the air feels disappointingly cold. 

“We have to go.  Faust.” 

“I would sell myself for a moment more,” Hannibal says, his voice a little hoarse though he hasn’t yelled, his lips warm against Will’s palm which still hovers close. “I’m not certain the lesson is taking.” 

Maybe not the lesson that _Faust_ teaches, but others are.  A few years ago, he wouldn’t have admitted his weakness to Will so easily, so readily.  A wild creature showing the pale of its throat, and not only to ensnare him.  Genuine surrender, genuine contentment.  Will’s bought them at great price, but they’re Hannibal’s, and his.  _Theirs_. 

Will turns Hannibal, and finds himself melting into the embrace he took on the cliff, cold stone against Hannibal’s back, his pants still around his ankles.  Hannibal’s palm comes to rest over the scar on his cheek, cradling, and Will shuts his eyes.  The swell in his chest feels like safety, like joy.  Hard to name, when he never expected to find them. 

“Just a moment more,” he offers, though he knows as the lights flicker again that he isn’t moving, and neither is Hannibal.  They’re too busy falling, wrapped up in each other, the crash and roar of an untold future beneath their feet. 


End file.
